No Joy

If the wind from the north has brought you an odd sound along with the near frost, it is probably the collective wailing and gnashing of teeth north of the border. Lord Stanley’s Cup—in Disneyland? Arrrgghhhh! I fully sympathize; simple justice dictates that it return home to Canada, or at least to the same climatic zone. When did it become all right to play hockey in places where, if the power went out, the ice would melt? You don’t find surfers in Nunavut. I miss the black and white hockey of my youth, when players had names like Boom-Boom and Rocket, and smiles like an orthodontist’s nightmare. Or hometown games in the old Clarkson Arena—a modified cattle barn, except colder—where the WPDM announcer would have to cut to commercial while Golden Knights fans bellowed chants that would bring down a $50,000 fine.
These latter days are much reduced--civil, some say, or businesslike. Fah! I suspect the Ducks overcame the Senators through Disney animatronics. You can make an animated character do anything. Picture the Road Runner, with mask and pads. But the Senators have to bear some of the blame, adopting the name of the perennially-undistinguished DC baseball team. And who could ignore the horrible omen from last week’s fan rally, when the Ottawa City Hall fountain mysteriously filled up with blood? A calamity of Biblical dimension.